


A Measure of Warmth

by keelywolfe



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Thorin, Erebor AU, M/M, PWP, Sleepy Sex, Top Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an AU universe after the Hobbit book. Bilbo is living in Erebor, inside a <i>mountain</i>, and occasionally it can get cold. Fortunately, there are things that can be done about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Measure of Warmth

* * *

If anyone had asked Bilbo, which they had not and did not, thank you very much, Dwarves never asked his opinion on much of anything which didn't stop him from offering it, mind, they just didn't ask. But if they had happened on this one occasion to ask, Bilbo could have told him that if he'd ever considered it, he would have thought that living inside a mountain would be on the chilly side. 

An opinion that was very much supported by the sheer amount of clothing Dwarves wore. Beneath armor and chainmail were jerkins and tunics, overshirts and underclothes, and whatever else they felt like layering on in the morning and the first time Bilbo had seen that dizzying array of clothing, he'd been almost flummoxed past remembering _why_ he was seeing it. 

Almost. Not quite. 

There were exceptions to be made, of course, weren't there always? The banquet halls tended to be warm from the sheer amount of bodies within it; in fact, Bilbo often found them a tad too warm, braziers blazing and hearty Dwarf bodies all crammed up at the long tables. It made him understand a great deal better why Dwarves guzzled ale the way they did, streams of it pouring down their beards and soaking their shirts. It was probably a learned defense to keep cool and Bilbo occasionally envied them as he patted frantically at his sweating face with his handkerchief, matching them nearly pint for pint in ale, though he preferred it either in the tankard or in his mouth, and nothing in between would do.

Bedrooms also tended to be cozy enough and rather smaller than Bilbo had expected, not that he'd spent a great deal of time thinking about the King's bedroom. At least not before he'd found himself sleeping in it night after night. Living quarters were gloriously spacious, with the high ceilings Bilbo had come to expect, and they had every luxury Bag End had possessed and more, sitting rooms and private dining rooms and lavish baths, everything prettied with gems and cast in gold more often than not. It was all terribly nice and made him a bit nervous to be touching anything at times. Honestly, he favored the smaller rooms and the bedroom itself was his favorite. 

The fireplace was enormous, for one, casting waves of lovely heat and light over the entire room. The bed was piled high with furs and blankets, not something that Bilbo was accustomed to, but one did have to make cultural adjustments when one found themselves bedding down with a foreign King. Besides, it was all quite comfortable and gloriously warm, particularly when there were two bodies instead of one beneath those furs and blankets. 

It was such a terrible shame things rarely stayed that way. 

Bilbo opened his eyes slowly, the last, lingering softness of sleep receding and a through the fog of drowsiness beneath his cozy shelter of covers, he slowly came to realize he was alone beneath them, which likely meant he'd stolen all the blankets again in the night. 

Prying his lazy eyes open was a chore, indeed, but Bilbo persisted, quite certain that in the end it would be worth the effort. And lo, he was correct, for being a blanket thief had more substantial reward than simply keeping warm. It also meant he'd begin his morning with an enchanting view of Thorin Oakenshield, sound asleep and sprawled across the mattress, and bare as a babe from the crown of his head to his ankles. 

Surely it was from the blessing of some brazen god that Thorin chose to sleep on his stomach, his arms tucked beneath the pillow, likely grasping a blade though that hardly troubled Bilbo. To his eye, he was simple free to take in the taut muscles in Thorin's arms, drawn tight at the bicep. His hair trailed soft and tousled across his shoulders, spilling like ink over the pillows, and it nearly pleaded for a hand to muss it further, to catch up those silvered locks and give them a saucy tug. Thorin had one knee drawn slightly up, his legs just barely spread and the firelight cast across his thighs revealed a very tempting shadow between them, one that begged for a thorough investigation, and how fortunate it was that Hobbits were known to be curious creatures. 

With an effort, Bilbo managed to work a hand free and he laid it very lightly at the small of Thorin's back. The muscles jumped beneath his fingertips, the skin cool to the touch from lack of blanket and tenderly soft. Sun had likely touched this skin on the rarest of occasions and though Bilbo knew Thorin to be scrupulously pale, in the fireshine he was as gilded as the antiquities that graced the sitting room and twice as lovely, not that Bilbo could admit that to anyone, Thorin included. 

Bilbo shifted carefully closer still, as silent as he knew how to be, and slid his hand lower, just skimming really, tracing idle little circles and nonsense patterns until he could cup one firm arse cheek in his palm. Felt the heft of the muscle, the slow flex beneath his hand as Thorin drew his knee further up.

A fair sign that the Dwarf was waking but Bilbo did not draw his hand away, and why should he? He was just playing, really. Greedily touching because he could, he was allowed, and he wanted to glut himself on the feel of Thorin's skin against his palms.

Of all the treasures in Erebor, Bilbo had long since found that the one he liked best was its King.

"Are you planning on doing something with that?" Thorin asked sleepily, "Or are you simply enjoying the sight."

"Maybe," Bilbo admitted, tracing the faint crease where thigh met arsecheek. "It's quite the enchanting view."

Thorin hummed softly, perhaps in agreement but more likely a disgruntled snort. Honestly, he was simply awful at accepting a compliment. "I only ask," he yawned, "Because I wished to know if I might sleep a bit longer or if you require my attention."

Bilbo pushed up on an elbow, shrugging away the clinging blankets, the better to watch his hand against pale skin, untouched by the sun. His hand was darker, tanned from gardening in the midday and Thorin was white as starlight beneath it. "Oh, dear, no, please, sleep as much as you like. I'm sure I can entertain myself."

"Yes, I'm sure you can as well," Thorin said dryly. "Which is why I was hoping for a warning this time."

"Oh, come, now!" Bilbo protested. He squirmed to his knees, reasoning that if one hand looked delightful then two would be twice so. A theory proved quite correct and he massaged those hard cheeks firmly and for all Thorin's complaints, the only sound he offered to that was a muffled groan. "That was only the one time," Bilbo leaned in and planted a kiss against the small of Thorin's back, whispering against the skin. "And I only made a bit of a mess. One that I cleaned up, I might add."

"Mmm, you did," Thorin shifted, his hips rising briefly to meet the touch of Bilbo's mouth. "However, waking up to find you coming on my back was something of a shock. A particularly wet shock."

"Crass," Bilbo tutted. He dug his thumbs into the firm cheeks, parting them just enough to allow a peek at the little pink entrance hidden between them and drawing a startled hiss from Thorin, his hips lifting again and Bilbo fancied it was in offering.

"I'm crass?" Thorin groaned, low, the words rumbling from deep within his chest. "I'm not the one who chooses to fondle myself in the presence of others."

"It sounds awful when you say it like that. Other, not others, and you were asleep," Bilbo pointed out, a bit breathlessly. He nudged lightly at Thorin's inner thighs with his own knees and they slid obediently apart, almost too quickly for Bilbo very nearly toppled upon him. Instead, he caught his balance and shuffled forward enough to press his cock against that dark, inviting cleft, letting out a sigh of his own as he rocked lightly against it. "Sleep…sleeping people…do not count," Bilbo managed, curling his tongue against his teeth. Thorin was always so warm and his hips were canting upward, tiny, pleading shifts that Bilbo was happy to obey.

"You can stop talking now," Thorin gritted out, "And take advantage of this moment."

"Sleeping people also never tell you to be quiet," Bilbo sighed and only slid against that sweet, hot skin. He was leaking in his own eagerness, slicking the path, and he sank down on Thorin's back, sprawled over him as he slowly thrust against him.

"You don't speak to sleeping people!" Thorin snapped, shuddering faintly as he gathered himself enough to rise onto his elbows, head tipping back and the fan of his hair over his pale, broad shoulders was worthy of a view on its own. "Either fuck me or don't, you insufferable brat, but do not tease me!"

"Such crass talk this morning," Bilbo chided hoarsely, but he reached for the bottle at the bedside table, fumbling one-handed with the cork. Oil splashed, pooling at the small of Thorin's back and seeping lower, and though Thorin didn't protest the shocking chill of it, Bilbo could see his flinch, goosebumps rising. He didn't bother with apologies, only swept his hand through the oily slickness, drawing it downward and that earned him a low, raw sound, his fingertips rubbing at the cleft and then curling around himself, making sure everything was properly slippery. 

The bottle was hurriedly corked and cast aside and it was easy enough to shift slightly on his knees, adjusting his angle and the tip of his cock glanced against the tight, pink furl, pressing lightly. He felt Thorin's breath catch, hold, then resume in a stuttered cadence, his hips straining up, no longer begging but demanding.

Honestly, he shouldn't reward such impoliteness, but the very thought of manners were a far distant thought in Bilbo's mind. His own breath felt strangled, huffing out of him, and ever so hesitantly, he pushed, felt the resistance barely ease, oh, Thorin _would_ be stubbornly tight, there was nothing about him that was easy and relaxed, not even just after sleeping.

Beneath him, Thorin was panting, each drag of air edged with a low whine as Bilbo put his weight against that stubbornness, pushing harder and ever so slowly, he edged within, a whine of his own escaping him at the silken heat of it, the tightness clenching around him, rippling around the very head of his cock. Thorin's back gleamed with sweat, shiny-damp and Bilbo managed to raise a slippery hand, sliding it down that smooth, bare skin and feeling the harsh trembling.

"Easy," Bilbo coaxed, "Easy..." he bit off words promising not to hurt him, for he didn't care to be fucking an offended Dwarf this morning, and instead closed his eyes, focused on pressing inside that incredible tightness, pausing whenever Thorin's grip in the sheet tightened, the low noises in his throat as enticing as they were wrenching.

"Oh," Bilbo breathed out at the bump of his hips against Thorin's backside, "Oh, you feel...you're amazing, you are, you have no idea how amazing--"

A low chuff of strained laughter greeted that and a slow, nearly clumsy roll of hips against his own, "Must you talk about everything?"

"Yes!" Bilbo groaned, pulling back a fraction and then sinking back within and there, there it was, a fraction of loosening and it was a bit easier to move now, sliding into that glorious heat and Bilbo struggled up a bit, he had to see, he simply had to, looking down at where Thorin was stretched around him, the swollen pink of the rim spread wide around his cock. "Yes," Bilbo whispered again, "When it's as...as lovely as this I...ah!"

His near wail cut off sharply as Bilbo caught up Thorin's hips, digging his nails in for some small leverage as he drove in, bracing his knees and Thorin was lovely beneath him, the arch of his back, the long strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp shoulders, and the sounds he made, oh, deep, low growls and moans, demanding without words for more. As if taking Thorin thus were such a terrible hardship, as if Bilbo wasn't already growing addicted to the brutally tight clench around him.

So desperately tight and it occurred to Bilbo, in the dimly-lit corner of his mind where thought had been banished, that perhaps Thorin had not done this before. That he was allowing Bilbo to be the first and that tiny thought alone was enough to tip him into lustful insanity, trying to offer Thorin the savage fucking his body was craving. His knees slipped against the sheets, and Thorin was not still beneath him, bucking and driving back into each thrust, greedily taking all that Bilbo could offer and still wanting more.

Thorin was balanced on one arm and Bilbo watched the sharp pull of his elbow through narrowed eyes, knowing very well what was happening and there was no time for a mocking comment on fondling oneself, the urge for any mocking leaving him as Thorin let out a near sob, his voice choked and clotted, and Bilbo could feel the moment he tipped over the edge, the clutch of his body tightening to the point of pain and his cock felt bruised, felt glorious. Bilbo managed a last ragged, desperate thrust before he came, pushing in as deeply as he could and holding, spilling the heavy rush of his seed deep within.

He held and pulsed and let out a cry of his own, felt the hot wetness of his own seed surrounding him, slickening Thorin within and he rocked easily into that slickness even as he softened and finally slid free. Beneath him, Thorin wobbled and collapsed, knees sprawled apart and his hands finally releasing their white-knuckled grip from the sheets.

Bilbo felt rather wobbly himself from his nose to his knees, but Thorin was shaking, teeth chattering lightly and his skin prickled with gooseflesh. Without a word, Bilbo rescued their much-abused blankets and snugged up against his side, offering what warmth he had. He stroked a hand down Thorin's back, following a slow path down his spine, fingering each bump lightly, then back up, lightly tracing symbols at the nape of his neck before repeating it. Slowly, Thorin settled, his breath going slow and even and Bilbo closed his eyes, contenting himself to sleep.

"Do I not get a clean cloth this time?" Thorin asked sleepily. He twisted a bit, rolling to his side and it made it easier for Bilbo to spoon himself into the curve of his back. Boldly, he drew a hand downward, past the softening bulk of his cock and the pale curve of his hip to his inner thighs, tracing the slick tackiness drying there.

"No," Bilbo decided. "I think I rather like you as you are, all messy from me."

"Oh, terribly, terribly crass," Thoin chided, though perhaps the yawn diminished it. Still, he obeyed the light nudge of Bilbo's fingertips, barely shying away as they sought out his sore entrance, rubbing tenderly.

"Nothing about you like this is crass," Bilbo informed him, kissing his shoulder simply to taste the warm salt of his skin. "Nothing as lovely as Thorin Oakenshield debauched could be anything but wonderful."

That earned him a rough nudge in the ribs with an elbow and Bilbo accepted that as his due, since it didn't change anything one jot or tittle.

"Hmmmm," Thorin huffed, little more than a disgruntled breath. "And can I sleep then?"

"You may," Bilbo allowed generously, and he shifted his hand to curl it gently around the soft bulk of Thorin's cock, felt it twitch feebly in an effort to rouse. "No, no," Bilbo soothed, and he did not stroke, only held gently. "Sleep, do you remember?"

"Mmmm."

Bilbo suspected that was more snore than agreement, settling in against Thorin's back for a bit of his own nap. He kept his hand where it was, offering a silent, 'Mine!' to any impertinent minds that might be listening as he drifted to sleep.

-finis-


End file.
